The jet touched down in Prague at dusk.
The city below looked like a painting: spires like needles piercing a violet sky, cobblestones slick with rain, and the Vltava River winding like a strip of liquid steel. It was beautiful—dangerously so.
Morgana zipped her coat as she stepped onto the tarmac. The air here was colder, thinner, like it had secrets of its own.
Callen walked a few paces behind her, silent. She didn't look back.
---
The Cover
Their driver was waiting—a woman with blunt-cut hair and a placid expression.
"Mr. and Ms. Duvall?" she asked in accented English.
"That's us," Morgana said smoothly. The new alias rolled off her tongue as if she'd been born to it.
The car that whisked them away was black and anonymous, the kind of car that could vanish into traffic without leaving a ripple.
Inside, Morgana checked the tablet the Director had given her. The auction was scheduled for tomorrow night at Galerie Klenot, an old aristocrat's estate converted into a private sale house. High ceilings. Crystal chandeliers. Cameras hidden in every shadow.
The fragment—Heretic—was Lot 17. Estimated value: "undisclosed."
---
The Hotel
Their cover had them staying at the Hotel U Zlatého Stromu, a place of velvet curtains and low-lit corridors.
Morgana liked it instantly: urban, but with old-world elegance. She'd always preferred environments where history pressed close; secrets seemed to echo better there.
In the elevator, she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirrored panel. Rain had made her hair a shade darker. Her reflection looked like a stranger—cool, composed, untouchable.
Callen leaned against the wall beside her. "Nice choice," he said.
"I didn't pick it."
"Still. You seem like velvet and chandeliers suit you."
She ignored him.
---
Reconnaissance
That night, they walked the streets of Prague. Not together. Two agents moving on different lines, overlapping just enough to look like a couple.
Morgana's heels tapped on cobblestones as she cut through a maze of narrow streets. She let herself enjoy the city for half a second: the scent of roasted chestnuts from a street cart, the way the old stone buildings leaned toward each other like they were whispering.
At the auction house, she slowed, adjusting her scarf as if she were just another tourist taking in the view.
Galerie Klenot was a monster of a building—baroque, with lion statues at the entrance and cameras tucked into the wrought-iron gates. Through the windows, she saw tables being set with silverware, art handlers carrying crates inside.
A single crate bore a red wax seal.
Her phone buzzed: a message from Callen.
17 just arrived. I'm on the east side. One guard outside, four inside. Two cameras we can't loop from the street.
She typed quickly: Understood. No entry tonight. Watch patterns.
---
The Encounter
She was about to turn away when someone brushed past her.
A man, tall, expensive suit, cologne that smelled faintly of cedar.
"Excuse me," he said in perfect English, but there was a curl of amusement in his tone.
For a moment, she thought nothing of it—until she realized he was smiling at her. Not just a polite stranger's smile. Something else. Something knowing.
And then he was gone, slipping into a waiting car that disappeared down the street.
Her pulse quickened.
Callen: Problem?
Morgana: Not yet. But someone's watching the watchers.
---
Back in her hotel room, she peeled off her coat, tossing it onto a chair. She didn't bother with lights, just stood at the window and stared at the glowing city.
Somewhere out there, someone had looked straight at her in the street like they already knew who she was.
And tomorrow, she would have to walk into a room full of them.
---
Prague was a city that pretended to be asleep at night.
She knew better.
She'd learned a long time ago that cities like this never sleep—they stalk.
---
Tomorrow night, Lot 17 would be on display.
And she would have to decide if she could trust the man they called Larkspur before someone else decided for her.